


How Does a Man Fall in Love?

by kyrieanne



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrieanne/pseuds/kyrieanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does someone like robot!Darcy come to declare his love for Lizzie Bennet before he even asks said girl out?  (Through Episode 78)</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Does a Man Fall in Love?

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this would be more about Darcy and his dating history, but it ended up filled with lots of sibling feels. I’d love to know what you think!

“Here is the question,” Charlotte asks Lizzie a week after Darcy’s declaration. She lies on her bed, feet in the air, and flips the pages of a catalog of clothes neither of them can afford, “How does a man fall in love with you before he asks you out?” 

Lizzie groans from her spot on the floor. She is pretending to read but she’s been staring at the same page for twenty minutes, “People use the word love too liberally. Lydia loves everything that moves. Bing supposedly loved Jane.” 

“But this is Darcy we’re talking about,” Charlotte leans over the side of the bed, “He is nothing but deliberate.” 

“He said it himself. He was at war with himself,” Lizzie lifts a shoulder, “Doesn’t count.”

“He was at war because he loves you.” 

“Loved. He watched my videos, remember?” 

“You’re still not going to tell me what was in the letter?” 

“Nope.” 

Charlotte rests her chin on a single fist, “I just think a grown man has to be pretty passionate to fall in love so recklessly like that.” 

***

As a child, William Darcy’s favorite spot was at the table in his parent’s kitchen. It was a large, heavy piece imported from somewhere. He never could remember from where. It had been their old dining table back before his father stretched Pemberley’s business from coast to coast and then across oceans turning it into an international powerhouse. But in the beginning, William Sr. had been a mildly successful talent agent and the Darcy fortune consisted of Anne’s inheritance, which was substantial, but not at the level her children would grow up with. She invested herself and her money into William Sr., and then into Pemberley, because her heart told her to and her father told her not to. 

But she set aside a bit of the money and bought the table. It was rich and mahogany and fit twelve people with all the leaves put in. She loved to polish it and set her Tiffany tea set out just in case someone might drop by. Anne grew up back east among women for whom lunching was a career. She was always prepared to receive visitors, but no one ever came. Out here, on the west coast, everyone was too busy becoming famous. Sometimes Darcy asked to have tea with his mother just to see her smile. He sat up straight and listened to her talk about the proper way to do things because it made her happy when he asked. 

By the time Darcy was ten they moved from the house on the golf course to the estate in the country and his mother had to entertain more than a dozen at a time. The table was relegated to the kitchen where it became Darcy’s favorite spot in a house that just went on and on. 

When people asked him what it was like to grow up the son of William Darcy Sr., the great entertainment baron, Darcy wanted to tell them his childhood smelled like lemon polish and tasted like Andes Mints because that is what his mother always set on the side of his plate as a treat for eating his vegetables. It wasn’t that William Sr. was distant; Darcy’s father had been gregarious and passionate. He loved everything. That was the problem. Everything did not work well within the confines of a marriage, especially not one to Anne Darcy. 

Darcy’s childhood was overwhelmingly domestic. It wasn’t a suburban domesticity. His mother didn’t make a pot roast on Fridays and clip coupons on Sundays. They were rich and Darcy was never allowed to forget that. Maybe because she grew up rich or because she was lonely but Anne keenly felt the responsibility of their wealth. 

“Money is not a good,” she told Darcy once - he might have been fifteen and annoyed that his father told him there would be no car for his sixteenth - she touched her palm to the side of his face, “Your father didn’t grow up like us. He doesn’t want you to take the money for granted. For him it is a good, a thing, and he thinks by with holding that thing you’ll appreciate it more,” she dropped her hand suddenly as if uncomfortable by the prolonged touch, “But money isn’t a good. Money like ours is a way of life.” 

“I didn’t mean to upset him,” Darcy said.

She smiled sadly, “It is a way of life that comes with the responsibility to use it wisely. We should always do good and show generosity, but it would be naive to think it didn’t set us apart too. Your father doesn’t want you to think that way, but it is true so what can you do? I’ll talk to him about the car.” 

When she said it Darcy hadn’t really understood what she meant, but after she died he internalized her position somehow, as if by osmosis, as if his mother and her words floated in the corners of the house. Every time he stayed at the estate he felt her there. It disquieted him and layered on more pressure to live up to this great house and the family expectations that came with it.

It isn’t until he confesses his love for Lizzie Bennet and is thoroughly rejected that he comes to question all of this. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves here…

Darcy’s childhood was overwhelmingly domestic, in large part, because of Gigi. Gigi was happiness born out of unhappiness. Their parents tried to restore something to their marriage and thought another child might work, but it didn’t. It was the happiest mistake either of them ever made. As if prepared for the ways her life would shatter too early, Gigi was blessed with a happy, energetic disposition. Where Darcy was content to sit still for hours at that mahogany table, working on the penmanship course his mother signed him up for or reading (which was his preference), Gigi could not be contained. She ran before she walked and shouted before she talked. Where he let his mother dress him like a miniature adult too far into his teens Gigi was a mess of bright tutu skirts paired with leopard print ski hats.

When Anne signed her up for ballet, Gigi insisted on taking tap instead. She was seven and Darcy had never in his fifteen years ever seen someone out maneuver their mother, but Gigi won. She’d tap, tap, tap outside his bedroom door, her shoes pinging on the parquet floor. 

“Will! Will! Will look at what I can do,” she said flailing her arms as she went. 

“It’s William,” he mumbled without looking up from his latin text. 

“Will! Look at me!” 

The bitter truth is after Gigi was born the whole household revolved around her. The help were at her beck and call. She put on plays in the foyer, tracked mud through the library, and always ate desert before her vegetables. William Sr. doted because she was just like him whereas his son was strange. He ironed his own pants. William Sr. blamed himself for letting Anne indulge the boy for far too long. But Anne indulged Gigi too. She was the girl. The baby. Seemingly every family expectation applied to Darcy, but not Gigi. Sure her time was filled with activities to improve her accomplishments - horseback riding and dance and drawing and swim and tennis - but she never sat through Mrs. Piddle’s charm lessons like Darcy had. She was never checked. She was everyone’s brilliant star and for all of his childhood Darcy resented her for it. 

“If you do not tell her to contain herself I will,” Darcy exploded one night. His parents were still in their clothes for the opera and sitting in the library waiting for the car to be brought around. William Sr. cocked an eyebrow at his 21 year-old son as he poured himself a glass of scotch. He picked up a second tumbler and poured Darcy a drink. 

“She’s a child,” Anne rubbed a temple, “She’s not you, William.” 

“She’s thirteen. Old enough to know that jumping into the pool in all her clothes in front of half the board is not acceptable.” 

“Would you have preferred she was naked?” William Sr. tipped the glass back to hide his smile. 

“It was my presentation,” Darcy muttered, “Mother was hosting the event here for me and she went ruined the whole thing.” 

“I think you’re just upset she upstaged you,” William Sr. said. 

Darcy set his glass down. The liquor sloshed along the sides, “It’s your company, but I am telling you she will be the ruin of this family if someone does not check her!” 

He left them and hid in his room. It was devoid of any comfort though. Everything he cared about was in his apartment at Cambridge. He’d only flown home for this presentation. No matter what kind of life he tried to build for himself elsewhere he’d always be pulled back to Pemberley. It was expected. 

And what was expected of Gigi?

How did she win people over so readily?

How did she win freedom so easily? 

Hours later Darcy forgot those questions because there was a knock on his bedroom door. The housekeeper said the police were here and then the police told him about the car wrapped around the tree. The car contained his parents and with that everything Darcy knew about his life vanished. He may have been born an old man in a child’s body, but that night he grew up. 

His first act was to go wake his little sister. 

He sat on the side of her bed, ran his fingers along her pink quilt, before he touched her shoulder. She rolled over and in the low light of a single bedside lamp, sighed, “What is it, Will?” 

The picture of her dark hair fanned out against the pillow and her eyes, the exact same shade of hazel as his, changed how William Darcy II conceived of his baby sister. She didn’t cry when he told her. She circled his wrist with her fingers, held tight, and tugged until her arms were wound around him. It was the strangest feeling to be held like that. He was the grown-up and she had barely edged into teenage-hood. But the look she gave him was fierce and far braver than he felt at the moment.

“It’s me and you now,” she said and for a moment Darcy believed it might be okay, “Me and you,” she repeated. But then the words caught in her throat. She hiccuped and curled into herself. Darcy shifted until his back was against her headboard and he held onto her while she cried. 

He held onto her for days and weeks and months as they buried their parents and swam through the courts to grant him custody. 

“You’re not going to let them assign someone else, Will, right?” 

It meant giving up his last two years of college. It meant finishing school in San Francisco and earning his MBA at night. It meant going before the board and proving he could take over as CEO. It meant that he didn’t date because he was too busy sitting poolside at her swim meets. It meant moving them into the city because the better high school was there and his commute was ridiculous anyway. He let her pick the apartment and decorate everything but his bedroom.

It meant his mortification of being called out of a meeting to calm a distraught Gigi, huddled in a bathroom stall with her cellphone, because she had just gotten her period in the middle of gym class and NO, Will I can’t just ask someone! Please, can you bring me a tampon? And it meant realizing he wasn’t as mortified buying the tampons as he was that he HAD NO IDEA WHAT HE WAS DOING! 

After their parents death something changed in Gigi. She calmed and quieted. She reined herself in. She asked to be sent to Mrs. Piddle for etiquette lessons. She switched out horseback riding for French, though she kept dance, swim, tennis, and drawing. She sat still long enough to do her homework and proved to be smart. She always reminded Darcy she wasn’t as smart as him and Darcy found himself telling her she was something better. She was intuitive and passionate. People liked her. 

“People would like you if they knew you better William,” she said. 

(That was another thing that changed. After their parents died she reverted to calling him William. It took him two years to get used to it.)

“I don’t converse easily with people I don’t know.” 

“You’re friends with Fitz and Bing and George. They’re outgoing guys. Get them to help you.” 

Darcy didn’t bother to correct her. He was friends with Fitz and Bing. He was acquaintances with George Wickham because their father had preferred the boy. He wasn’t really a boy. He was Darcy’s age, but he was the kind of person Darcy had no patience for, one with the appearance of goodness and the character of something less. He didn’t bother to correct her because George was her swim coach and she thought he was so funny. 

“You know I didn’t feel like I knew you until after Mom and Dad died,” Gigi said, “I was always trying to impress you. I just wanted your good opinion.” 

Will frowned, “You always had my -,” 

“Don’t lie,” she arched an eyebrow, “I drove you crazy.” 

“Isn’t that what little sisters do?” he slung an arm around her shoulders, “Let’s go out for dinner. Your choice.” 

“The Wharf, then.” 

“Isn’t that where that Bobby Drammer kid works, the one from your physics class?” 

“Maaaybe.” 

“I’m not ready for this.” 

What Darcy wasn’t ready for is the phone call he gets from Gigi a month before she graduates from high school. She was at a swim meet in Vegas and she called him in the middle of the night. The woman in bed next to him, a former sorority sister of Caroline’s named Lisa, groaned and Darcy tugged on boxers and prayed Gigi didn’t hear the woman as he slipped into the hall. He didn’t have time for a relationship - has never had time - but once in a while he said yes to one of Caroline’s set-ups. 

But Gigi didn’t notice, “Will, can you come get me?” 

It was like the night their parents died all over again. He got on a plane with only his phone and wallet and a head full of things he’d like to do to George Wickham. It wasn’t until he got to Vegas that he learned the full truth of what happened between George and Gigi in that hotel room. Until that moment he had never seen red before, never had every ounce of self-control fall away and realized there is nothing he wouldn’t do at this point. The swim team supervisor met him in the lobby of the hotel and was already talking her way out of responsibility. 

He spun on her, “It was your job to supervise!” 

“You don’t know your sister,” the woman sputtered, “It’s impossible to say no to her. Frankly, she needs to be checked. It could have been so much worse if I hadn’t caught them.” 

He leaned inches from her face, “One more word and I will bury you.”

In the end, Darcy does nothing because Gigi begs him not to. She doesn’t want to press charges. She doesn’t want to sue the swim organization. She wants to slink away and hide at the estate in the country. He does it because she does not look at him with the fierce expression she had the night their parents died. She whimpered and crawled into his arms and Darcy realized she was more broken then than she had ever been. 

She and Darcy holed up at the estate for the summer. He hated it, found the ghost of their parents everywhere, but it didn’t matter. It was where she asked him to take her. She wore dull black sweat pants and he had to remind her gently to wash her hair because it has gotten greasy. 

One night she asked him, “Will, can you cut my hair?” She leaned against the kitchen island where he had set up a temporary office. He hadn’t been into the city all summer. Board meetings now took place around the massive mahogany table his mother bought all those years ago. 

“We can make an appointment in the morning,” he didn’t look up from his spreadsheets. 

“I wanna it cut now.” 

“Can’t you wait till morning?” 

“If you don’t cut it, I will.” 

He looked at her then. Blinked. He hated it, but he couldn’t help but hear the words of that swim coach, You need to check her. 

“Gigi…” he leaned his forehead onto an open palm and shut his eyes. 

“I want to be different than the girl who…” 

His head snapped up. She didn’t finish but he understood. She wanted to be someone else. He understood better than she could imagine. 

“Get the scissors.” 

He googled how while she jumped in the shower to get it damp. They positioned two chairs face to face in the kitchen and he asked her again if she was sure. 

She held herself straight, closed her eyes, and exhaled, “Do you remember the night Mom and Dad died?” 

“Of course.” 

“I heard you that night,” she opened her eyes, “What you said to them before they left for the opera. I heard what you said about me being the one who would ruin the family.” 

“Gigi I was an idiot.” 

“And I decided that night that I was going to change. For you. I was going to learn to be good like you 

She was crying, holding her hands tight until the knuckles turn white. Darcy held onto the sides of the chair. 

“I was an idiot, Gigi.” 

She shook her head, hiccuped, “You kept me from being a brat. I always got my way until you came along. But that night I decided I was going to start thinking about other people. You were always so good at it.” 

Darcy didn’t think that was true, but he didn’t correct her either. He pulled her head to his shoulder and let her cry onto his dress shirt. She cried for all of it - the loss of their parents and the pain from Wickham. She also cried as a happy girl born out of unhappiness. A girl who the world wanted to check and that fact had cost her too much already. Darcy was done letting it happen. 

“I like you exactly as you are,” he said to his sister, “Not let’s go watch a movie.” 

“I still want to cut my hair. Short.” 

His brain protested it would be harder to pull back for athletics, that long hair was classic on someone like her, but he stopped the thought there. 

“I think that would lovely,” he said. 

***

When Darcy falls in love with love with Lizzie Bennet it takes longer for him to see clearly. It isn’t until he watches the video of his declaration and her rejection that he sees it. 

He groans into his hands. Against his better judgement is a cop out. He is in love with a woman who can not be checked and it isn’t until she rejects him that he processes that. He is not proud that it takes him that long to get it. 

It isn’t that he is disappointed. In fact, he is relieved. The truth is Darcy doesn’t want to be his mother’s version of him and he certianlly doesn’t want to love a woman who fit any list. It isn’t until Lizzie’s rejection that he comes to terms with the fact that he would never be anyone’s version of him. Not vivacious like his father or endearing like Gigi. He would always be prejudice unless he came to peace with his own expectations for himself. 

The truth is he is awkward and traditional and really smart. Really smart. He likes things well ordered, but he craves a little chaos in his life too. The kind of chaos that loving Lizzie Bennet causes. She upturns him. Challenges him to think beyond those in his immediate circle and to put himself out there. But more importantly she challenges him to come to terms with himself. 

He is a man for whom love is simple. He loved his mother despite her blindspots. He kept his father’s legacy alive. He loved and raised his little sister because that is what you do. He is a loyal and steadfast friend. These are the things he wants Lizzie to know, not that he has excellant penmanship and can speak four languages. 

When she shows up at Pemberley and Gigi shoves him into that office for the second most awkward moment of his life, Darcy can scarcely breathe. Would she give him a second chance? Then she turns down his offer for a ride and he feels the lump in his chest rise. Sometimes there isn’t a second chance. He understood. 

How does a man fall in love? A girl touches his arm and he dares to hope again. That’s all it takes.


End file.
